The master of records prompted, “And your personal money – fifty unions? A hundred?”
Agna sighed, aggravated. It was so petty. But she supposed that the caravan had to keep records about theft. She remembered the Yanweian’s careful list and resented him for it. – That wasn’t helping. She knew what her parents had given her; they’d told her the figure – ten thousand crowns – half a dozen times, as though she should be especially careful, as though she would lose it if she didn’t realize how much she had. But that had been in Nessinian currency. She had come to Vertal and stopped at that office at the waterfront, where they’d looked at her strangely, and weighed her money box, and calculated...
It was coming back. She had felt annoyed at the fact that Nessinian coins were worth less than Kaveran. Nessinian coins were smaller, she had rationalized, but it hadn’t seemed fair, considering that the Kaveran government was such a rickety thing. Agna pulled her memory back to the numbers. She’d had ten thousand crowns, at that annoying rate – a little over seventy percent? And then, curse it, she had bought food and camping supplies and... she was back to the beginning.
“Ugh. I had a little more than seven thousand unions when I came here, but I’ve spent some since then. I don’t know how much.”
“Seven thousand unions?” the guard captain gawked.
Agna moved to cross her arms, and winced at the pain in her shoulder. She cradled her injured elbow in her hand instead. “Well. I was going to be here for two years.”
The master of records dipped his pen. The captain remarked, “I suppose, unless you’ve been in the habit of buying jeweled toothpicks, you can’t have made much of a dent in it.”
“Seven thousand,” the guard captain murmured.
“What? You can barely buy a wagon for that much. I asked. And I have to buy food, and everything, and that’s not even getting into horses to pull a wagon with.”
“That’s good enough,” the Captain interrupted. “We’ll say seven thousand to be on the safe side, I suppose.” She smirked a little as she said it, and Agna’s mouth tightened.
“Yes, ma’am.” The master of records completed his notes and blotted the page.
Agna huffed. “Fine. Is that all you need?”
The Captain gave her a warning look. “That’s all I need, Agent. Please have a seat. We’ll get you back to the passenger wagon when we stop to switch horses at midday. Would either of you like something to eat?”
“Yes, please,” Agna blurted, while the Yanweian said “no, thank you.” He would. – Agna remembered the stomach ailment that she’d sensed in the scan and felt guilty. She sat on top of her trunk and squeezed the key into her money pouch.
The Captain sliced some bread and cheese, at home with the gentle rocking of the wagon. She handed over a slice to Agna, and then a cup of water. “Thank you, ma’am.”
The Yanweian accepted some water from the Captain. The food eased Agna’s gnawing hunger, and cleared her head a little. The caravan officials continued their meeting, discussing the pursuit of the bandits and the plans for the night watches for the next several weeks. Finally they lapsed into a discussion about the guards and the merchants – which new recruits were working out, which weren’t, which businesses were doing well and which weren’t. Agna snapped awake a few times, and she saw the Yanweian doing the same.
He had woken her up when she’d fainted. Not the caravan guard, and, thankfully, not the bandits. She supposed that it made sense; he was the other medic. It was his job. He hadn’t been critical, or sour, or sarcastic. He hadn’t understood what was happening, but she supposed that was to be expected from someone so unfamiliar with the Academy’s art.
She could qualify it and draw boundaries around it, but he had helped her off the ground and gotten her to safety. And she’d never thanked him. He hadn’t exactly thanked her for attacking the bandits first, either. But someone had to take the high road. Not now, of course. When they had some privacy. Whenever they made camp, she would extend her thanks to him for helping her into the tent. She practiced some lines, striking a balance between humble and elegant – but they all ended in bitter rejoinders from the Yanweian.
Meanwhile, the target of her silent speeches dozed off, leaning against the wall. Agna wondered when he’d come into the tent to sleep. Not that it was any of her business.
When the wagon stopped, the Captain stood to face them. “All right, medics, thank you for your time.” The Yanweian lurched to his feet. The Captain addressed them as though she hadn’t noticed. “I commend you for your bravery. We’ll talk again soon about security in the camp. Safe travels.”
Agna and the Yanweian stumbled out of the wagon, with the guard captain on their heels. He carried Agna’s trunk down the short ladder to the ground. Agna grabbed the strap when he let go. It rolled so easily now, as though it were empty. She supposed it wasn’t far from the truth.
“Good day,” the guard captain said, and went on his way. The Yanweian gave his salute. He scanned around them, through the tangled dance of the stable master and his apprentices as they brought fresh horses into the crowd.
“Stay here. I’ll find the wagon.”
“I can see, you know. And walk.”
He groaned under his breath. “I know you can. …Fine. Suit yourself.”
Agna pulled the trunk behind her as they weaved through the chaos. The passenger wagon was fairly tall, so Agna looked for its canvas roof over the heads of the humans and horses. She and the Yanweian spotted it at the same time and veered toward it.
A caravan guard turned to see them climbing the ladder and stood to help Agna up to the deck. The Yanweian lifted her trunk after them, and Agna pulled it down the aisle. The guard had been sitting with the rest of their belongings, just as the Yanweian had said. Agna wheeled her trunk to a secure spot between the benches and flopped down to rest. The Yanweian checked his lute and took it with him to the bench behind her. The guard waved and hopped off the wagon.
They were back on their usual track, or were supposed to be. Agna’s right arm was all but broken, the Yanweian was barely functioning, and she wasn’t sure how she’d keep from starving for the next two years. But the caravan had deposited them back in their place. From now on she had to figure this out herself.
Keifon: Safety
The next stop was a campsite beside some anonymous village. Keifon and the Nessinian, unspeaking, brought their remaining belongings to their assigned place. Keifon assembled the tent. The Nessinian held up poles and tied ropes when she could, and Keifon did not dare to stop her. He needed the help, after all, although he would never admit it.
They gathered their things and went to the baths, though the water was cold. The water’s bite kept Keifon awake as he unwound the bandages and washed up. Through the canvas wall he could hear the sloshing of her awkward movements in another stall. He thought he heard a few muttered, foreign curses.
They had left their tent unguarded. Keifon had needed to complete his routine for the night, and lacked the energy to argue with the Nessinian about who would go first. And he might have been a little glad that he hadn’t gone alone. It was worrisome to leave his nanbur unguarded. On the other hand, if the bandits returned, perhaps he should take it as a sign from the gods and cancel his contract. It was a ridiculous thought, but somehow comforting.
The water had loosened flakes of dried blood from his marriage torque, and he realized that it had seeped into the joints between the segments. His hand lingered on the back of his neck. It was foolish, but he could not bear to unlatch it. He had left it on after Eri had taken hers off. He had left it on when selling it would have put a roof over his head. He had left it on through... everything else. Through Kazi. He would not take it off now, for something so trivial.
Keifon dipped the scrub brush in water and gently scrubbed the metal, flexing each joint as far as it would bend in order to reach every tiny crack. He poured water down his neck, across his violated skin, washing the blood away.
/>
There was nothing else he could do, so he returned to the tent. The air stung his cut skin. He lit the lamp and re-bandaged his neck and his back as best he could, pulling a shirt on just before the Nessinian returned.
She put her things away, spread out her bedroll, and lay down to sleep. Keifon put away the rest of his bandages and tools and set his valise aside. He didn’t want to try to read. He didn’t want to be the only one awake. He unpacked his bedroll and blew out the lamp.
She wasn’t asleep yet. “Hey.”
“Hm?”
“What you did, the other night. Helping me back into the tent, after. I wanted to say thank you.”
A rush of gratitude pressed against Keifon’s throat. He did not welcome this need to be acknowledged, especially by this spoiled, vicious child. But there it was, uncoiling in his chest, drinking in the civil tone of her voice.
He had been silent for too long. She went on. “And... you had a point, about asking before I heal you. It’s fair. I usually do ask,” she added, but did not press the point further.
“I know,” he found himself saying into the dark. “I know you do.” The rest was too big, tangled in thoughts about selfhood and rights and status.
“May I heal the other cut? I meant to, yesterday morning. It’s got to be hard to have a bandage around your neck all the time.”
Keifon touched the edge of it, as his other hand ran along the bandage across his belly. She wasn’t wrong. He would only have to be vulnerable for a moment, every fiber of his body exposed under her hands, and then it would be over. “...All right. The back too, if you don’t mind.”
“The back?”
“It’s... it’s smaller than the other one. But deeper. They – they had me at knifepoint in the back first.” The Nessinian whispered some oath. Keifon braced his hand against the ground, reminding himself that he was here in the tent and safe, not outside, not surrounded by strangers and steel. “So if you don’t mind, that one too. That would be good.”
“Of course.”
The events unfolded against his will once again. The hot pain in his ribs, the panic clogging his throat, the voices he couldn’t always understand through the fear. He curled up on the bedroll, his body distant, in another world from the gloved vice-grips bruising his arms and the stink of sweat and smoke. He thought he might be sick, somewhere in the dream where he was safe inside. He hadn’t eaten in half a day, though, and his empty stomach twisted against itself.
She said something, out there in the world of safety. Finally she appeared in their clutches, and Keifon couldn’t stop the flood of relief and dread. He wasn’t alone. They had her. They were trapped. And then she had fought back.
That piece of the memory dumped him on the shore. His mind cleared slowly. She was speaking to him. “Are you all right?”
Keifon loosened his aching muscles and stretched out. He breathed until he could speak. “Last night. Last night you – you...”
Her voice was small. “It’s an application of the healing art. We only use it in self-defense, as a last resort.”
“...saved my life, I think.” She didn’t answer. “And I never – I never said thank you. Thank you.” Silence. Keifon settled onto his side to sleep. “That’s all.”
He heard her before the exhaustion dragged him down. “I had to. But you’re welcome.”
Agna: Dispatch
The next morning was a little better. Agna’s shoulder hurt, and she was cramped from not being able to change position as she slept. Still lying in bed, she drew up a little bit of energy. It came as easily as ever. She let it burn off her fingertips as a brief, glowing light and lowered her hand. So that much was all right. It would be hard to get around and live her daily life, but at least she could function in the clinic. She could do what she had been sent here to do.
First, though, she had to get cleaned up and eat some breakfast – she had time for breakfast today, even though the mundane actions of cooking would be difficult. Then she had to heal the Yanweian’s injuries. She wondered, putting off the annoyance of getting up, why he was so reluctant to be healed. There were healers in Yanwei, even though their methods and resources did not begin to approach those of the Academy. Was it a personal vendetta? Jealousy? Or did he not trust her abilities? He’d seen her heal plenty of villagers over the last two weeks.
Thinking about his grudge made it easier to dodge the deeper unease below that – she wasn’t sure she wanted to heal him. She was eager to use her skill, and eager to pay him back for helping her. But it felt strange to scan into someone that she already knew, someone who dredged up so many warring thoughts about rivalry and resentment and gratitude. The Yanweian was not her patient, even if she had healed him. He wasn’t a case study or a collection of symptoms. She couldn’t send him on his way after she’d finished. She had to feel every thread of his energy merging with hers, feel his blood and his breath through her hands, and then look him in the eye every day afterward.
Agna sighed and creaked out of bed.
***
The Yanweian was drinking his morning tea when she came back from the baths. He set his cup down. “I’ve gotten some food. It was about a hundred head.” Agna remembered the lesser Kaveran coin, which had a bull’s head on one side. “You can pay me back later if you want to.”
“All right. I’m not sure what I have left. I still have to count it.”
He nodded. Agna returned to the tent to pack her bath kit and nightgown. The trunk was so empty. It almost seemed a waste to haul it along, with nothing to put in it. She supposed that her bedroll would squash inside now.
Stretching her neck, Agna returned to the campfire and picked through the larder chest. The Yanweian had picked a sensible, if plain, assortment of the sorts of things that they’d been eating so far – bread and eggs and spring onions and cooking herbs. Agna took some bread and a lump of butter, wrapped in waxed paper. On the flat lid of the larder chest, she was able to precariously cut and spread, one-handed. At least tea made itself. She set a cup to steep as she ate. If she had to live on bread and tea until this sling came off, so be it. She had the impression that bread was cheap, as foodstuffs went. That was another advantage.
The Yanweian opened one of his books. Agna tried not to think about him. It would only take a minute to heal him, if the wounds were not infected. It would be a relief to get back to work in the clinic. She would be nearly as useful as she ever was, and she would have a little more money.
Agna washed out her teacup and packed it away, and turned to find the Yanweian standing by the tent. He slowly unfastened the free end of the bandage around his neck, not looking at her as he spoke. “Here, or at the clinic?”
She shrugged asymmetrically. “I don’t mind, either way.”
“All right. I’d prefer here.”
“Suit yourself. I’ll wash up. You can go ahead.” He entered the tent, and Agna washed her left hand in a bowl of water from the barrel. In her awkwardness she splashed the front of her robe. It would dry, she told herself. It was a minor thing.
When she entered the tent, he had already lit the lamp and taken a seat. The bandage lay in a folded pile next to him. She lifted his chin to inspect the cut in the light. The skin around it didn’t seem to be reddening or swelling. That was a good sign. It was beginning to heal cleanly. No problem at all. She considered their positioning and the difficulty of working with one hand. “Can you turn?” She twirled her finger in the air. “All the way around. I can reach it from the back.”
The Yanweian complied without comment. Agna took a deep breath, clearing her mind, and cupped her left hand around the left side of his throat. His energy was more muted today, controlled, as though he’d muzzled his loathing toward her. And it was easier to take if she didn’t have to make eye contact.
She scanned first, understanding the placement of the tissues and the interrupted flow of energy. His pulse beat against her fingertips. She gathered some of her own energy and infused it into him,
encouraging the broken flesh to knit together. His skin smoothed under her hand, and the energy snapped back, releasing the applied influence like a plucked string. She surveyed the finished product, passing her energy through the area again. Everything was back to normal. She ran her fingers over his skin. At most, he would have a thin line of scarring, and even that might fade eventually. Perfect work.
“Hey—” He turned, jerking sideways out of her reach. “What are you...”
“What? It’s done.”
He was blushing, and she realized why. The thought brought the blood rushing to her own cheeks. Context. Yes, if they were different people, in a different place, in a different situation, the way she’d just stroked his neck might have seemed very familiar indeed.
But his hand had risen to the spot now. “...Oh. I... I see. Yes.” His hand lingered there, and she allowed him some time to calm down. He had spoiled the atmosphere, anyway. She had to ask him to take off his shirt next, and now she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Why did he have to go and ruin everything? She’d been doing well. Who even thinks of something like that in the middle of a healer’s work, anyway? There were stories like that, of course, but they were absurd and not at all realistic, and besides –
She had to focus. She could get through this. “And the other one?” Agna prompted. It was as close as she could get to the topic.
“Ah.” The Yanweian awkwardly hiked his shirt halfway up, then shucked it off. Agna held the lamp to get a good look at the second cut. It was more ragged than the first, a crooked gouge into his ribs. Luckily, it didn’t seem to be infected either. He’d treated it well. – Of course he had.
She set the lamp down. “Ready?”
“Mm. Go ahead.”
Agna shifted on the floor, sitting offset to his right. The cut was a few inches above his right kidney. She laid her left hand against his back and repeated the familiar process. She sensed his controlled breathing like a conversation overheard through a wall. His energy was overcharged, tense – even afraid. She had done her best, this time, to work with his misgivings and follow all of the proper procedures. She was sure that she hadn’t done anything wrong. She’d done her best. Was he still tense about that little misunderstanding? She was still a bit unsettled herself, but… Agna shoved this aside and threw her concentration into her work.
The Healers' Road Page 10
